


Words/Prayers

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [6]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Death, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:12:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weapons/pleas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words/Prayers

Wednesday, December 22, 1999

A sick crack followed by a booming holler rips through the basement. Numbers raises his eyebrows, indifferently cocks his head towards the source of the cacophony, and sighs.

It’s well past four in the morning and while tormenting Lovera’s been the closest thing to fun Wrench and Numbers have shared, their prisoner’s lack of cooperation is starting to grate on both men. He’s been unyielding since his captors returned and shook him awake, his loose lips tight with silence as soon as Numbers began asking him about the guy he was indebted to. From his change in demeanor the hitmen easily glean that the loan shark’s more than likely dead, and Lovera’s protecting the one who offed him. Even though his own death is imminent, not a threat but an indisputable promise, he doesn’t offer a single syllable that would grant him relief.

But dying sooner rather than later isn’t much in the way of consolation prizes, Wrench supposes.

“Antonio?” Numbers prompts when Lovera’s whining tapers, “You still with us, buddy?”

Through his agony Lovera hisses out a muffled, “Fuck you.”

If Numbers wasn’t on the verge of exhaustion he might almost be impressed that this little maggot is still, somehow, managing to hold out. He never pegged Lovera for a steel vault, and he certainly thought this lowlife would be singing like a canary after the first hour he and Wrench started taking turns beating the Christ out of him. Whoever he’s protecting must be a real mensch. He signs a dismissive, _“Again,”_ prompting Wrench to deliver another hammerfist to Lovera’s cracked collarbone, definitely breaking it this time.

Over Lovera’s renewed howling and crying, Wrench turns to Numbers, shoulders slumped with fatigue. _“What do you think of this Y2K thing?”_

Numbers heaves himself up from his seat at the bottom of the stairs, his hands weaving through his disheveled hair. _“Overhyped nonsense,”_ he signs after stretching. _“And even if it’s not, who cares? We’re basically off the grid.”_

Wrench gives this a moment's thought, tugging at the collar of his thick sweater and welcoming the cool air against his sweaty chest. _“Might mess things up for the syndicate. If it happens.”_

 _“As long as they find a way to pay us I don’t really give a shit,”_ he says, now at Wrench’s side. Switching gears before Wrench has the opportunity to throw him any other technological doomsday questions, he asks, _“How long’s it take to get to this lake?”_ He’s not entirely convinced this is the best method for disposing bodies, especially with the knowledge of what happened the last time his partner went this route.

Checking his watch, he responds, _“About three hours. We’ll be there at sunrise if we leave soon.”_ Taking note of the way Numbers’ brows are crinkled he assures him, _“It’s fine. We’ll be careful.”_

They've killed enough time here. Numbers nods and a beat passes before he fishes around in his pockets, eventually retrieving the crumbled slip that registered their meal. He smoothes it out, only now noticing the series of digits on the back that spell out Christine’s phone number. Even if she _was_ his type, he would never consider getting involved, even for a night, with someone who he knew dotted their I’s with hearts. This, coupled with how she made a mockery of his partner, makes him feel even more smug about his actions.

Wrench rolls his eyes as he watches Numbers fold the receipt over and over until it’s a tiny, crooked square. _“You’re really not gonna call her?”_

_“Come on, we’ve gotta wrap this up. We’ve been screwing around long enough.”_

_“Getting laid would do you some good,”_ Wrench shrugs, pulling a book of matches from his jeans pocket, _“You’d be less grumpy.”_

Numbers gives Wrench a stern look and plucks the matches from Wrench’s extended hand.

_“Men have needs, that’s all I’m saying.”_

_“Then **you** call her.”_

_“Not my type,”_ Wrench says, capping off the sentiment with a roguish smile.

Numbers doesn’t know whether Wrench means that the same way he did, but what he _does_ know is he’s not curious enough to ask. Pointedly redirecting his attention to Lovera, still sniveling and shaking in his chair, he sighs. “We’ve given you a lot of chances to talk, Antonio. But even nice guys like us have a breaking point.”

Lovera laughs, or at least tries to: it comes out more like a wheeze.

“You think this is funny? Does it look like we’re joking?”

The man gingerly cranes his neck upwards to look at them, only to be met with a sharp slap across the face from Numbers.

 _“The way we figure, there’s really not too much future with a sawed-off runt like you,”_ Wrench remarks.

“What’s he saying?” Lovera mumbles thickly. His mind’s nearly overwhelmed by the various throbbing pains ripping through his body, though he keeps one eye on the book of matches in Numbers’ hand.

“Shut up,” Numbers snaps. _“What **are** you saying? What is that?”_

Sheepishly tussling his overgrown bangs, Wrench signs, _“It’s from a movie I like.”_

Numbers battles the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and reply with something rude, but instead addresses Lovera. “My buddy says it’s a shame about all this, you know? How you refuse to help us out.” He turns the matchbook over and over again across his fingers. “We have no choice but to take drastic measures. But we take no joy in this, I assure you,” he adds, a wickedly contrary grin overtaking his tired face.

As soon as Numbers strikes the match, Lovera begins squirming, his thin, battered form twitching like a disoriented worm stranded on the pavement after a storm. Wrench grabs hold of his left forearm and hand, managing to at least keep that part of him still enough for Numbers to bring the ignited paper to the back of Lovera’s hand.

Lovera’s screaming and pleading is nothing compared to the _smell_. Neither Wrench nor Numbers knew what it would be like, but even if there had been some kind of briefing at the syndicate about lighting a target on fire there was no way they could have prepared for this. At first it’s just burning hair, but seconds later something else fills the room, unlike anything they’ve ever experienced: metallic but acrid, sweet yet almost like charcoal. Numbers’ stomach lurches dangerously and he takes a step back, though Wrench keeps his grip on the writhing Lovera.

When Wrench attended church as a child, he took a strange comfort in lighting candles before offering prayers. As they burned they sent the intention of his pleas up to God, to Heaven. It had always brought him a sense of peace. Watching Lovera’s hand bubble and burn, he wonders what prayers the man’s saying now, and whether the offering of his own flesh would incite God to intervene in his favor.

“Please! Stop, please stop, please!”

Numbers takes a bracing breath through his mouth, hoping to hell he doesn’t lose his dinner when he opens it to speak. “It’ll stop when you talk.”

Lovera’s skin blisters and bubbles, the flames eating through skin and working towards muscle. He squints his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the triumphant look on his captor’s faces as he screams, “Lagler! Sid Lagler killed him for me! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please stop this!”

Numbers grabs Wrench’s jacket off the floor and smacks it interior side down onto Lovera’s hand, quashing out the flame. “There, was that so hard?”

~~~~

They arrive at Lake Sakakawea just as the first few rays of sunlight begin to peek over the horizon.

The lake is already frozen solid but ice fishing season hasn’t started yet. There isn’t another soul in sight as Wrench kills the engine, the only sounds now belonging to the wind. Morning beautifully breaks through the surrounding tree line, and the two men might even consider the landscape before them peaceful if they weren’t about to pollute the lake with a body.

While Wrench retrieves the power auger from the back seat, Numbers strolls around to the trunk of the car, the snow crunching beneath his overpriced shoes. He breathes the crisp, chilly air deeply as he twirls the key ring around his index finger, whistling to himself. There are muted shuffles and groans emanating from the trunk, contrasting sharply with Numbers’ cheery tune.

Numbers pops the trunk just when Wrench joins him at the back of the car, and they unceremoniously pull out Lovera, throwing him roughly to the ground. He moans pitifully, his battered body bouncing slightly as he hits the snow, and Wrench gives him a kick to the gut for good measure. Numbers winces, his own stomach tempestuous at best between his shot, the sub-par pizza, and the memory of Lovera’s ignited skin.

 _“Grab him and follow me,”_ Wrench dictates, nodding towards the frozen lake before them.

_“Why can’t you drag him?”_

Wrench stares at him for a beat, his tongue poking between his lips to taste the cold, before hoisting the auger onto his shoulder and strutting out onto the ice, shaking his head.

“Son of a bitch,” Numbers mutters as he bends down to grab Lovera’s ankles. “Alright, let’s get this over with, Antonio.”

Lovera groans feebly as Numbers begins pulling his body onto the lake. “Wait… Please… I’ll tell you more, tell you everything…”

“Nothing like the last minute, huh?” Numbers rolls his eyes. This is so goddamn typical of these people, refusing to give all the details until they’re about to shuffle off the mortal coil. He grunts while he yanks Lovera along, his gloved hands tightening around his ankles as he takes a look over his shoulder to see Wrench with his back to them, positioning the auger. “Better make it fast. Death waits for no man, or however that goes.”

The motor revs, destroying the serenity of the morning hush, and there’s a new desperation in Lovera’s eyes as if the gravity of it all is finally occurring to him. He twists around on his back as he’s pulled, his mouth opening and closing stupidly a few times before finally molding the unintelligible sounds into proper words. “Lagler said he had a buddy helping him… Petroske… Oh, God.” He suddenly turns his head to the side and vomits, leaving a trail of bile behind him as he’s pulled along the ice. Numbers tries to suppress his immediate urge to throw up as well, but can only drag Lovera about a foot more before he drops the man’s legs and turns, clutching his chest and retching. Wrench continues drilling, oblivious.

After what’s left in his stomach violently evacuates his body, Numbers crouches and holds his head in his hands, spitting bitterly as cold sweat beads on his clammy forehead. This is the second goddamn time this has happened to him and he’s furious with himself for not only knowing this could happen and taking his shot before they left anyway but for thinking lighting somebody on fucking fire was the best course of action.

Wrench completes his task and sets the auger down on the ice, turning to find Numbers standing on shaky legs and wiping his mouth, a small yellowish-orange mound in front of him. Lovera, meanwhile, weakly tries to turn himself onto his stomach so he can crawl to safety. He grits his teeth and marches towards them, cursing a blue streak in his mind. For someone who navigates the world like he’s infallible, Numbers just made a giant misstep; getting sick on a job is a weakness Wrench won’t tolerate, and between the freshly-cut hole in the ice and the pile of puke not twenty yards away, he worries somebody might put two and two together and figure out that _something_ happened here that definitely wasn’t on the up-and-up.

Numbers sees Wrench angrily approaching and tries to signal him off, but it’s no use. His partner’s by his side within seconds, frantically waving his arms around.

_“I left you alone for five minutes! What the fuck happened?”_

Numbers doesn’t answer, only tries to get around him. He’s too angry and ill to do anything other than get the rest of whatever remaining information there is from Lovera and drop him into the icy water.

Following a few unsuccessful attempts to side-step the man looming over him, Numbers instead opts to glare up at his associate, his stomach still churning.

Even though he’s able to play the part well enough, Wrench doesn’t consider himself an angry man. It’s an ugly feeling to be consumed by, leaving behind hollowness and a bad taste in your mouth, and he’d rather not make a habit of succumbing to it or holding it within his heart. But he’s angry now—furious, even—and without a hint of hesitation or second-guessing whether his hands will escalate the situation he signs, _“Are you man enough to do this?”_

Numbers clenches his fists, his fury running as deep as the lake they stand on. There’s no way Wrench could possibly know the weight of his words, yet he’s forced them on Numbers’ shoulders for him to carry anyway. He grits his teeth, breathes out through them, and stares Wrench down as if he’s a second away from hitting him, any and all budding good will dried up and gone. Not trusting himself to say anything, he nods.

_“Then man up and go get him.”_

There are those words again, those insinuations. The memory of his first hit echoes through his mind, the order to “man up” prompting Numbers to aim his pistol at a stranger’s heart and pull the trigger. He turns away, unimpeded this time, set on focusing the majority of his ire on their hostage, who has begun slowly clawing his way back towards the car. Granted, he hasn’t gotten very far, but what little patience Numbers had remaining for this assignment is as nonexistent as Lovera’s about to be.

With a determined scowl, he quickly strides over to Lovera and stomps on his right hand with as much force as he can muster, the heel of his shoe audibly breaking at least one finger. Lovera wails against the ice, his legs kicking frantically behind him. Wrench stands back and watches with his arms folded, willing Numbers to hurry up. They’re losing time and the sun’s almost completely risen. There’s always the chance that someone might show up for some pre-season fishing, and he doesn’t want to risk getting caught.

Numbers spits down at Lovera, “Was there anybody else involved in your little operation?” When he doesn’t get an immediate reply, he grinds his heel, putting almost all of his weight into it. “If you don’t tell me the truth, I swear to God, Antonio, I’m gonna find and kill your entire family. And that’s the one thing you _should_ be betting on.”

Lovera’s sobbing again, his free hand grasping fruitlessly at the thin layer of snow atop the ice. “No, I swear! That’s all I know. I’m sorry! Now please—”

“Can it.” Numbers rolls his eyes and delivers a punch to the back of Lovera’s head. It doesn’t knock him out, but at least it shuts him the fuck up for the time being, save for the occasional burble and moan.

Wrench joins Numbers and the two men make fast work of hauling Lovera the remaining distance to the opening in the lake. He’s taken to mumbling the Lord’s Prayer as best he can despite his extensive head injuries. As if a single plea to God and Jesus could possibly save his greasy little soul.

A minute later they lift him up by his ankles and half-throw half-drop him into the black water before he can say “Amen.”


End file.
